


Fox Confessor

by SuiteJayne



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Masturbation, Not Canon Compliant, different first meeting (among other more minor differences), fantasies of M/M oral sex and M/F vaginal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuiteJayne/pseuds/SuiteJayne
Summary: The silent retreat in Season 1 Episode 4 isn't women-only, and Fleabag is intrigued by the one man in attendance.
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Kudos: 23





	Fox Confessor

**Author's Note:**

> Claire sticks around for the whole weekend here. Also, I stole the title from Neko Case’s album [Fox Confessor Brings the Flood](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLJ7QPuvv91JsPCD54Xxh2MA82CYkCUSqG). Because I mean, how could you not? : )
> 
> Thank you to K. for being my beta reader! All errors are, needless to say, my own!

It would be wrong, she thought, turning the metallic pink object over in her hands, to use Claire’s vibrator. Of course it would. Ridiculous to even consider it. 

But what if there were no penetration? She frowned and sniffed the vibrator. It had no smell at all. 

Or what if there were penetration, but she thoroughly sanitized it afterwards? Claire would be none the wiser. Besides, they were sisters. They were close. Well, pretty close. Okay, not _that_ close. 

She sighed and put the vibrator back in Claire’s toiletries bag. 

It’s just that she’d been almost certain there would be at least one opportunity for a shag this weekend. She’d pictured a loose-limbed yoga instructor type, lightly patchouli-scented, perhaps, adorned with dreadlocks or an attempt at a beard. Instead it was mostly tightly wound marketing executive types wearing—yes—expensive yoga gear, but without the requisite free-spiritedness. And also without penises, which, while not strictly necessary, were more in her usual wheelhouse.

But really, she thought, zipping the toiletries bag closed with resignation, what was the big deal? When you thought about it, using someone else’s vibrator was no different than fucking someone else’s boyfriend, which people did all the time. 

_People like me._

Her throat clenched. Memories arose unbidden: Boo’s boyfriend stopping by the cafe, leaning flirtatiously on the counter, his eyes a liquid honey-brown. Boo at her door, her face crumpling, her thumb bleeding where she’d worried a hangnail. And then a memory that wasn’t; instead, it was a nightmare reconstruction of what must have happened: Boo hesitating on the kerb before a raging river of traffic.

She stood up, shook her head, tried to shake the thoughts out of it. She approached the window and looked out at the waning daylight, a gray wash over the grounds of the country house with its tidy, conical shrubs and decorative stone walls. Just then a taxi pulled up, the gravel crunching under its tyres, and a man got out and paid the driver before climbing the stone steps to the main house. 

The man was dark haired, compactly built, and carrying a duffel bag. A “guest,” then, or anyway, a participant, rather than a staff member. Could be promising. She’d have to take a closer look in daylight, verify the dental situation. That actually could be challenging given that it was a silent retreat, but maybe a yawn or a smile would afford a glimpse of his teeth. Again, bad teeth: not a dealbreaker, obviously, but a major distraction.

The following day found her on her hands and knees, but not in the context she usually preferred. Instead, she was cleaning the tiny tiles of a nineteenth century mosaic depicting—what was it? A griffin? Some kind of mythological hodgepodge. She was in the process of polishing its feline eye with a toothbrush.

She glanced at Claire, who was bringing the full force of her type A personality to bear on the creature’s paw, scrubbing as if every particle of dirt embedded therein had personally wronged her. She left off her own scrubbing and waited to catch Claire’s eye, but her sister was too absorbed. She glanced around at the others, all similarly focused. A dozen or so women crouched on the floor of the high-ceilinged entry hall paneled in dark wood. She imagined the thirtysomething woman to her left, her hair in a tight bun and her body severely toned, bidding farewell to her husband and small children to come to this retreat for some “me time” as an indentured servant. The expensively coiffed woman to her right was bunched over the grout with her toothbrush like some oversized, Lululemon-clad chipmunk. Further away, a young woman had paused to gather her straw-colored hair up in a ponytail. From behind, the woman reminded her of— She could almost have believed that it was—

She turned away, dipped her toothbrush into a bucket of soap suds, and scrubbed with a vengeance. One thing was clear: she and Boo had chosen the wrong line of work. Their line of work frequently found her chipping silently away at the burnt remnants of casseroles at the back of the cafe, a task not dissimilar to this but inadequately remunerated for the level of hassle. Whereas the people who ran this place simply put their heels up and waved away the cleaning staff while a bunch of pinched-faced Londoners paid for the privilege of sprucing up the place. It was an excellent scheme. She thought about packing in the cafe and opening her own retreat. The only difficulty would be moving out of London and into the wilderness of Buckinghamshire. Would she have to take tea with the local vicar? Wear jodhpurs and hunt foxes? She attempted to suppress a giggle and it emerged as a snort.

A dozen heads turned and two dozen eyes stared disapprovingly. It was rather exhilarating. She felt a highly inappropriate grin start to spread across her face. Just then, the door opened and urgent footsteps sounded on the tile floor. It was the man from last night. She could see now that he was in his late thirties or early forties, with a boyish face, dark eyes and a shock of dark hair, and faint stubble. He wore a tired, gray, long-sleeved tee shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He trotted across the mosaic to the retreat leader, the...matron? Warden? Whatever she was called, she was all but filing her nails as she oversaw her worker bees. The man attempted in frantic gesture to convey to her, seemingly, that he was sorry he was late and that he would make up for it with vigorous scrubbing.

Grabbing a bucket of suds and a toothbrush, he knelt at the griffin’s feet and proceeded to minister to its claws. He sat on his knees like a kid, his back turned to her and his feet crossed behind him. He wasn’t tall, but his back and shoulders were broad. He was... _manly_ , she thought with mingled amusement and appreciation. And actually more beautiful than she’d expected based on her glimpse of him last night. The only problem with this current, excellent view was that he was carrying objects in his back pockets that obscured the curves of his arse. In his right back pocket she recognized the rectangular outline of a packet of cigarettes, and she experienced a fierce Pavlovian craving. Maybe she should sneak out to smoke before whatever spartan food they planned to serve at noon.

Before she could consider it further, a gong sounded and the assembled masochists started to file out for lunch. The man gestured to the departing staff member that he would stay behind, and he bent down to redouble his efforts. She decided to stick around for a moment, too; as the staff member passed her, she used the toothbrush to point to her chest and then the floor, assuming a facial expression of what she hoped was meditative devotion to duty. She made a show of adding a squirt of liquid soap to her bucket from a nearby plastic bottle and stirred up suds with her toothbrush.

Then they were alone in the chilly hall. The man continued to scrub away, and she sat back cross-legged and fought the nicotine craving to stay and watch. His shirt was pulled tight across his back and she could see the outlines of his shoulder blades and the muscles of his neck and shoulders moving smoothly in concert. She noticed that his hair was thinning at the crown in counterpoint to his youthful face and body and his energetic movements. 

After a few minutes, he put down the toothbrush, interlaced his fingers and stretched his arms over his head. His shirt lifted to reveal a few inches of skin around the top of his tracksuit bottoms. Then he reached into his left back pocket, pulled out a silver flask, unscrewed the lid, and tipped his head back to drink.

She was still holding the plastic bottle of soap, and witnessing this, she squeezed it in surprise, causing it to fart out a soapy blast of air so noisily that they both started. The man turned, flask still in hand, an expression of pure surprise on his face that became one of delight as their eyes met. She pointed to the bottle and shrugged: _It wasn’t me!_ He laughed, revealing a mouthful of very nice teeth indeed; then, remembering, he slapped his hand over his mouth and shook his head. He made his way over to her—not by standing up and walking, but by shuffling across the wet tile on his knees, and offered her the flask. She pantomimed checking her watch as if scandalized by the early hour, then winked and accepted the flask, taking a swig and wincing as whiskey seared its path down her throat.

\--

Lunch was a buffet of cold dishes lined up on a sideboard in a long room occupied almost entirely by an enormous heavy oak table and chairs. The floral wallpaper had a silky, expensive sheen and every corner of the room seemed to be decorated with a flourish of white-painted something-or-others. What the hell were those called? Barnacles? Poultices? Cornices? There was even a Goddamn chandelier. The windows looked out onto a miniature hedge maze that came up only to knee height, the white marble fountain at its center quiescent in this season. Beyond there were green fields sloping down to where distant traffic swished along the M40.

She sat next to Claire, who was pushing bits of pasta salad around her plate and pounding sparkling water. She tucked into a lemony green bean dish—it wasn’t bad, actually, especially considering the hairshirted discomfort that pervaded the rest of the communal activities—and looked down the table to where he sat. He hadn’t yet started eating; his head was bowed and his eyes closed. Was he nodding off? Had he been swilling from the flask all morning, then? Or was he— _could_ he be— _praying_?

As if on cue he opened his eyes, unfolded his napkin, and started eating in a businesslike fashion. He _had_ been saying grace! An unusual and tantalizing combination of details began swirling into focus around him. _We have here a smoking, drinking, silent-retreat-attending sayer of grace_ , she thought. 

She nudged Claire with her elbow, and when she had her attention, tilted her head in the man’s direction: _Get a load of this fella._

Claire craned her neck subtly to have a look and nodded approvingly, then slid a hand up and down one arm: _He works out._

She nodded enthusiastically. Under the table, she made a circle with one thumb and forefinger and slid her other forefinger in and out of it: _I'd have him._

Claire waggled her eyebrows: _Me too._

She winked at Claire while simultaneously jerking her head at the man: _Have at it, then!_

She was in the middle of a complex series of gestures intended to convey that should Claire decide to rendezvous with the sexy stranger, she would retreat to their shared room and avail herself of Claire's vibrator, when the retreat leader cleared her throat aggressively and the sisters turned to find her steely gaze upon them. Chastened, or at least doing their best to give that impression, they returned their attention to their meals. The food really was quite decent. Claire dissected an olive. She forked up a green bean and stole another look at the man. He was looking around the room between bites, his gaze roving over the group and taking in their surroundings. Their eyes met, and he smiled around a mouthful of pasta salad.

The distant whine of a siren gradually intruded on their consciousness. They both turned to look out towards the M40; the flashing lights of an ambulance came into view over a distant hedgerow. He quickly motioned with one hand towards his forehead, sternum, and shoulders, making the sign of the cross in such a practiced and casual way that the gesture was almost, but not quite, illegible. _Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch_ , her mind giddily supplied. A Catholic! How delightfully exotic. A steamed green bean squeaked between her teeth, by far the loudest sound in the room.

\--

That night she dreamed of him. In the dream, he was kneeling in a gloomy church accepting communion from a faceless priest whose elaborate brocade garments spilled over the steps that led to the altar. Smoke from a silver censer snaked through the cavernous space. 

Then the scene shifted; she was sitting in a confessional, and the man and the priest were squeezed into the neighboring compartment. The man straddled the priest’s lap, kissing him passionately. His fingers caressed the priest’s face, wove through his hair. Then he was climbing off the priest’s lap and kneeling at his feet, scrabbling at his flies. She pressed her face against the grille separating the two compartments, peering through to watch him yank the priest’s trousers down and grab his cock with one hand, taking it swiftly, hungrily into his mouth.

She looked up at the priest to see his expression, and was somehow only mildly surprised to see the same boyish face, now tipped back in ecstasy, mouth opening to murmur a benediction. He seemed to be penitent and confessor too, giver and receiver of head. She looked down again and saw that no, she'd been mistaken; it was _she_ who was kneeling at the priest's feet with her face buried in his lap. Then the latticework between them seemed to crumble and she was pushing through it, falling onto him and kissing him. 

The dark wood of the confessional melted away now and they were naked on a bed; he was lying down and she was on top of him with his cock inside her and her hands planted on his chest. He moaned and grabbed her hips for purchase as he thrust up into her. Sweat shone on his forehead and chest. He closed his eyes, grabbed one of her hands, kissed her palm. She rocked on top of him, squeezing him inside her as tightly as she could. He was close, she could tell. 

"Wait! I need to tell you something," she said, going still all of a sudden. "It's about my friend."

He opened his eyes and looked frankly at her.

"God loves you," he said seriously.

She laughed.

"How can you say that? You don't even know me." She felt a kind of panicked sob fighting its way out of her chest.

"I know, but—I will," he said, raising his palm to her face and cupping her cheek gently.

She woke up sweating. She was lying on her side with her hand between her legs, inside her pajama bottoms. She sensed that she’d been fumbling at her clitoris in her sleep.

Well, it would be a shame to waste a dream like that. She was three quarters of the way to orgasm. She rolled onto her back and slid two fingers into her vagina, which was already flooded with liquid. She played with her clit with wet fingers, sliding them down the shaft and over the glans, pushing her clit from side to side. Then she slid her fingers back inside herself, plunged them deep and hooked them to press on that secret spot that would bring her off. She thought of him, of stripping that grey tee shirt off him, of lying back and taking him inside her, wrapping her legs around him and running her fingernails over his back, grabbing his arse to drive him into her. She climaxed silently in deference to Claire, who was snoring softly a few feet away.

\--

The following afternoon, she and Claire were packing to leave, thank God, and bickering over who would drive on the way back to London. Perhaps the atmosphere here had actually suited Claire, because judging by her manner of packing, she now seemed to be rapidly ramping back up to her previous stress levels. Claire carefully folded each of the few garments she had brought, including her gauzy little undies, before inserting them unnecessarily into nylon packing cubes. She arranged them in her rolling suitcase, pulled them out, and rearranged them. Claire then plugged in her phone, her laptop, her bluetooth headphones, and her smart watch, occupying every outlet in the room. Then she lay on the bed with her arms folded under her head in a simulacrum of a relaxed posture which she undermined by jiggling her foot feverishly. 

“In your own time,” Claire said, casting a baleful eye over the litter of as-yet-unpacked possessions strewn across the room. 

“Oh for God’s sake, I’m almost ready,” she replied. “But before I get in a car with _you_ , I’m going to need a cigarette.” She moved toward the door, grabbing her sweatshirt and pack of cigarettes.

“Well, before I get in a car with _you_ , I’m going to need some fresh air,” Claire snapped, sitting up abruptly and making for the door as well. “I’ll meet you back here in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late!” 

Claire strode off down the main hall. Meanwhile, she made her way to a back stairwell that she’d discovered; it opened onto a secluded spot behind the house. The stairs must have been used by servants in the house’s previous life; now, in contrast to the rest of the place, it was unadorned, painted an institutional white, windowless, and a little dark. As she approached the bottom of the stairs, she saw a shadow against the frosted glass window set into the door that led outside. She reached the door just as it opened; the man ran inside, colliding with her.

“Oh, fuck!” he blurted, stepping back. “Shit!” 

His eyes widened and he clapped his hands over his mouth, then pressed the heels of his palms to his temples and shook his head. 

“Shit. Fuck. I’ve ruined it, haven’t I.”

He looked at her in distress; he was backlit by the soft light of the overcast day, and his irises appeared almost black. This close, she could see the crinkle of crow's feet around his eyes and their fringe of dark lashes. 

“I couldn’t even make it two days,” he complained, on a roll now. He was Irish, which was a nice bonus. “It’s just—it’s just that—there’s a fox out there.”

A fox? Oh—he must have run into Claire wandering about on the grounds. She did tend to have this effect on people. Claire was what you might call _unsettlingly_ foxy. That would explain his current state of discombobulation.

She smiled and raised her eyebrows knowingly at him as if to ask: _Are you going to make a move on her, then?_

He briefly looked confused. Then there was movement in her peripheral vision; they both turned to the door to see a fox—an actual fox, _vulpes vulpes_ , trotting up the gravel path towards them. He gave a little shriek, slammed the door shut and, for good measure, sprang at her and clung to her shoulders, shrinking against her. She put her arms around him instinctively, protectively. Their faces were close together; she could smell smoke on his breath and laundry detergent on his clothes, and underneath that, a trace of the unique scent that was all his own: that chemical fingerprint, that mysterious animal force that underlay attraction. He shivered and she tightened her arms minutely around him. For a long moment they just looked at one another; she felt a laugh bubbling up inside her, but his face was solemn, so she didn’t release it. 

Then she leaned in and just brushed her lips against his, but he shut his eyes and stepped out of the protective circle of her arms.

“I’m sorry, I—I have to go. Pam will be worried,” he said, backing off rather slowly, even reluctantly, before turning to walk away. She nodded. _Pam_. Partnered, then. Married, maybe, although he wore no ring. She watched him retreat down the hall, then pulled out her cigarettes and put one in her mouth. She cautiously opened the door. No foxes in sight. She stepped out, found a patch of weak sunshine to stand in, and held the flame of her lighter to the tip of the cigarette.

A quarter of an hour later she and Claire were both back in the room. She was shoving the last few items into her bag when she noticed a taxi pulling up the drive. She hurried over to the window just as he came down the steps, now wearing a suit. He put his bag in the boot and walked to the passenger side door, and as he opened it she could see _he had a clerical collar on_.

“Claire, he’s a fucking priest!” she yelled.

Claire shushed her but rushed over to the window just as he climbed into the taxi and shut the door. They watched the car pull away.

“That’s weirdly hot,” said Claire.

“ _So_ hot,” she agreed.

For a moment her skin blazed again with the remembered warmth of his presence in her arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing about characters with no names is tough! Hopefully it’s clear who’s eating green beans, packing underwear, and so on, throughout. : )


End file.
